Denova sank back into the chair, exhaling a long, deliberate breath as the last fitting concluded. The delicate scent of lavender and silk lingered in the room, mingling with the faint warmth of the morning sun streaming through the tall windows.
For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of no demands, no rumors, no courtiers just the soft rustle of gowns and the familiar sound of Fhiore's chatter.
Fhiore was twenty-seven now, a celebrated designer whose name carried weight in every noble salon, but she had never forgotten where it all began. She was only fifteen when the Duke found her on a street corner, clutching a sheet of paper covered in dress sketches and a half-broken pencil. He didn't hesitate, he looked at her drawings once and somehow saw what no one else bothered to notice….potential.
At that time, her mother was gravely ill, and Fhiore had no money for medicine, barely enough even for food. Without the duke's help… she knew she might have ended up on the streets, or worse. His support had saved her mother, saved her future, and built the life she stood on now. She owed him more than she could ever repay.
There was a brief phase Fhiore would admit it only under threat that she thought she might be falling in love with him. She was young, overwhelmed, and dazzled by the kindness of a man who rarely showed any emotion. But that feeling dissolved quickly. The duke never once smiled at her, not even a polite one, and she wasn't the type to torture herself with one-sided love. Instead, she hardened her resolve, poured everything into her craft, and became the success she was today.
And then came Denova.
The moment Fhiore saw Denova's designs, she felt her breath catch. The lines were unlike anything she had ever seen elegant yet daring, delicate yet powerful. They were the kind of sketches that made a designer's fingers itch, as if her own hands were begging to bring them to life.
It wasn't admiration. It was awe.
Fhiore had designed for nobles, for royalties, for the most extravagant of clients… yet Denova's vision made her feel like a rookie again in the best possible way. The excitement, the spark, the thrill she couldn't remember the last time a design stirred her like that.
She knew instantly that she wasn't just making a dress. She was creating art.
"You really do talk too much," Denova murmured under her breath, a smile tugging at her lips. Fhiore, perched on the edge of the dressing table, shot her a mock offended look.
"Talk too much? Me? Oh, Denova, you wound me! I simply articulate the universe in ways others cannot comprehend."
Denova laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Clearly, the universe is exhausting you, then."
Fhiore giggled, then leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a dangerous secret. "Did you notice it? The Duke… smiling. Not just polite, not just a twitch at the corner of his lips really smiling at you. And you, laughing! Denova, I nearly dropped my teacup when I saw it. That man… he's supposed to be emotionless, but there you were, drawing it out of him."
Denova's chest warmed at the memory. "So, you approve of me, then? The one who makes the Duke smile?"
Fhiore rolled her eyes, though a small blush crept across her cheeks. "Approve? No, no, I'm fascinated. Jealous, even. You make it look effortless. That's infuriating."
Denova smirked, tilting her head. "Effortless, am I? Perhaps. Or maybe he just chooses to be… human around me."
Fhiore's eyes widened. "Human? Denova, that's practically poetic. And yet… frightening."
They laughed together, the sound spilling over the chamber like sunlight. Fhiore's voice then lowered, soft and conspiratorial, as she shifted to a topic only she could make so entertaining. The mansion and its secrets.
"You remember the cleaners from the guild that you hire twice a week?" Fhiore asked.
"None of them have ever really seen you… except one. She said she caught a glimpse of a girl on the balcony. White hair like spun moonlight, holding a book, staring at the stars, and she looked… like a fairy."
Denova's laugh rang out, genuine and melodic. "A fairy, you say? I hope she didn't call me 'magical and untouchable' as well."
"She did. And I… almost cried. That was you, Denova. Standing there, entirely unaware that someone was admiring you from afar." Fhiore's voice softened. "Maybe that's why the Duke noticed you."
Denova's heart skipped a beat at the reminder. "Keep talking, Fhiore. Your conspiracy theories are delightfully addictive."
"And you," Fhiore said slyly, "are utterly irresistible when you laugh."
The warmth of friendship, trust, and unspoken admiration filled the room. Then, as naturally as conversation drifted before, it turned toward the noble intrigues of the court. Fhiore spoke of Lady Seraphine, desperately enamored with the Duke, yet constantly denied. Of the Prince, the Empress, the Emperor, each with motives layered beneath politeness. Denova listened, amused and fascinated, her mind weaving the gossip into its own tapestry of stories.
"Sometimes," Denova mused, "I feel as though you know more about the nobles than they know about themselves."
"I could write a book," Fhiore said, grinning. "A scandalous, footnoted tome, all about who stares at whom during dinners and who plots while pretending to sneeze. You'd love it."
Denova shook her head, smiling. "Terrible. Absolutely terrible."
"And entertaining," Fhiore added immediately. "That counts for something, doesn't it?"
Their laughter was interrupted by a gentle knock.
Kael's calm voice followed. "Milady… the child is awake. The Duke is in the room."
Denova felt a flutter of anticipation. "Thank you, Kael. I'll be there immediately."
The nursery was bathed in the soft, golden light of morning. The Duke stood near the window, dark hair catching the sun, holding the child with careful ease. The little one's eyes, wide and luminous, followed Denova as she approached.
"Good morning," she said softly, extending her hand. "How are we today?"
The child studied her silently, then reached out for her fingers. Denova grasped them gently, smiling.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, voice calm and teasing. "Or did the bed refuse to let you go?"
The Duke's voice, low and amused, broke the quiet. "Careful. She might like your chatter more than mine." while gently looking at the child's eye.
Denova rolled her eyes. "Watch and learn, Your Grace."
The child's whisper was soft but firm. "Hungry."
Relief spread through Denova, mirrored in the Duke's subtle, private smile. Pillyse, standing quietly at the side, felt her own shoulders relax.
The butler arrived with a small tray, and Denova began feeding the child slowly, her movements careful and tender. The Duke stayed close, offering soft words, steady presence, and occasional encouragement, watching her and the child with eyes that held far more than amusement, they held admiration, trust, and affection.
When the child made a small, exaggerated grimace at the taste of porridge, Denova laughed softly. "Not a fan, I see?"
"Clearly," the Duke said dryly, though a playful glimmer danced in his eyes, "he has excellent taste."
The child gurgled happily, reaching for Denova's hair, which she ruffled gently. The Duke's chuckle was quiet but unmistakable.
Later, as the child drifted to sleep, Denova returned to Fhiore in the dressing chamber.
"Tell me more," Denova said, easing back into the chair. "The Empress, the Emperor… what minor disasters are they plotting now?"
Fhiore leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Oh, so much. The Empress frets that the Duke will have more achievements than her own son, well she loves her son very much knowing that he's the only prince in this kingdom, and to make it short….she worries about everything. And the Emperor? Let's just say surprises are not his favorite thing, but he's a very devoted husband and a father. It may not be that obvious due to his position but as what I've heard he always tends to do monthly celebration for his relationship with the empress. Isn't he romantic? "
Denova smiled, feeling a thrill of satisfaction and amusement. "Flattery and danger in one sentence. You're talented."
"With all those compliments? They should be flattered," Fhiore said firmly, eyes bright.
For a long moment, Denova simply let herself bask in the warmth of friendship, laughter, and the quiet, steady undercurrent of love surrounding her from the Duke, from the child, and from Fhiore, who had become a guide, confidante, and witness to this extraordinary life she led.
And in that soft morning light, filled with whispered stories, gentle laughter, and the rhythm of life, Denova felt something she had almost forgotten, the exquisite beauty of being seen, truly and completely, by those who mattered most.
The morning sun had climbed higher now, spilling gold across the nursery. Denova sat on the low velvet chair, cradling the child as he yawned and squirmed, his small fingers curling around hers. The Duke leaned casually against the doorway, one hand tucked behind his back, watching them with a quiet, almost imperceptible smile.
"You know," Denova began, tilting her head to glance at him, "he's developing quite the attitude. Should i blame you? "
"Me?" The Duke raised a brow, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. "I'm merely a bystander in his artistic rebellion against porridge."
"Artistic rebellion?" Denova repeated, a laugh bubbling up. "He's eating like a tiny tyrant."
"He takes after me," the Duke said smoothly. "Stubborn"
Denova arched an eyebrow, hiding a laugh behind her hand.
The child, as if understanding the conversation, let out a tiny giggle, clutching her fingers tighter. Denova's heart melted, and she looked up at the Duke, who caught her gaze for a fleeting moment. There was a softness there, unspoken but palpable, that made her chest ache with warmth.
Fhiore, ever the opportunist, had quietly appeared at the doorway, leaning against the frame with a sly grin. "Ah, I see domestic bliss is unfolding," she remarked. "The Duke, usually so stiff, reduced to standing awkwardly while the small tyrant dictates terms. And you, Denova, feeding him like a saint. I am taking notes."
Denova glanced at her, mock glaring. "Are you trying to embarrass us?"
"Merely documenting history," Fhiore replied, her grin widening. "One day, you'll thank me for recording this, your transformation from elegant lady to… charmingly harried nanny."
The Duke shifted slightly, his voice low and teasing. "Careful, Fhiore. Or I might make you feed him next."
Fhiore gasped dramatically. "I refuse! I am not responsible for tiny tyrants! I—"
"—are exactly the right person to handle him," Denova interrupted, smirking. "You understand strategy, manipulation, and bribery. You'll do fine."
Fhiore frowned at her, mock indignation painted across her features. "Manipulation? Bribery? I call that preparation! A noble skill!"
The child clapped his tiny hands at the banter, gurgling happily. Denova's heart leapt, she leaned down and whispered, "You like the sound of laughter, don't you?"
The Duke approached, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. "He has good taste," he murmured, almost to himself, but Denova caught it. The words made her smile in spite of herself.
"You," Denova said softly, "have taught him well. Both of you are perfectly impossible."
"Perfectly impossible," the Duke echoed, his eyes dark with amusement, "is a family trait."
"Fhiore's eyes twinkled. "Ah, family trait! I'll have to remember that.
Denova laughed quietly, the sound warm and musical. "Maybe we should keep it our little secret," she said, leaning closer to the child.
The child yawned again and nuzzled her shoulder, tiny fingers clutching at her dress. Denova's heart swelled, and she glanced at the Duke, who was watching her with an expression that made her knees feel suddenly weak.
"You," he said quietly, "seem to know exactly what to do. Calm, patient… perfect."
Denova raised an eyebrow, teasing lightly, "Perfect, am I? Don't make me blush, Your Grace."
"You do it beautifully," he said softly, the words deliberate and intimate, carrying a weight that made her breath catch.
Fhiore coughed behind them, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Oh! I see romance is blooming in front of my very eyes. How utterly predictable, and utterly delightful."
Denova groaned. "Fhiore, stop narrating our lives like a play!"
"Not narrating," Fhiore said firmly. "Merely immortalizing history. For the record, Denova Ravenscroft tames tiny tyrants, charms stoic Dukes, and most impressively keeps her composure under pressure."
Denova laughed, shaking her head. "You really are impossible."
"Exactly," Fhiore said with a triumphant grin. "I'll see you all in my memoirs."
The child squirmed again, demanding attention, and Denova smiled, feeding him another spoonful with careful patience. The Duke stayed at her side, steady and comforting, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
In that sunlit room, filled with laughter, whispered secrets, gentle teasing, and tender moments, Denova realized something extraordinary. Here, in the ordinary magic of daily life, she was truly seen, loved, and home.
And perhaps, she thought, as the child reached for the Duke's hand and then hers, it was the perfect kind of chaos.